The Sick Rose
by Pandarus


8. Sleeping Beauty

The annoying thing about sweet little old grandmothers was that they didn't often have manacles and stout chains to hand. This was by no means a universal rule, but it tended to be the case; and sadly the old dear whose home Spike had appropriated was not a big fan of the S & M scene. He was forced to improvise with the tools available and hence Drusilla's still-limp body was wrapped up like a mummy in ropes ad-libbed from twisted sheets. He hoped it would be enough to keep her there while he dashed out for sturdier restraints; if he was lucky she would remain unconscious long enough for him to shackle her properly, so he could go out and find the bitches who had the gall to mess with his girl.

Spike took the low road to the Europa alone, picking his way through the disused stretches of the sewer tunnels and through metro station maintenance shafts that witches were surely less likely to frequent; although he realised, with a sinking heart, that he was probably persona non grata with most of Prague's demon community too. If the Brachen had been telling the truth, the witches had already burned out a dozen vampire nests and killed assorted other demons of various castes and species pretty much at random until they had a vampire's name to go with the corpse. The photograph had been found a couple of streets away and it was the sheerest bad luck they had connected it with the killing; he wondered how many discarded crisp packets and random fag ends they had gathered up just on the off chance.

How could he have been so unforgivably careless?

He managed to avoid bumping into angry humans or angry monsters and emerged in the Europa's cellar after half an hour's travel. Made his way discreetly up to the Honeymoon Suite and crept in, his whole body tense with nervous energy. Half expected witches and demons to spring out of the wardrobes and wriggle out from under the bed, but the place appeared untouched. He moved through the room with the utmost caution, alert for any sign of intruders, but he could neither see nor smell anything new.

Roberto made a hopeful little sound that modulated into a muffled sob of terror when he realised it was Spike. The vampire spared a moment to look at the two humans and unaccustomed pity welled in him at the sight; they had been quite the little Romeo and Juliet just a few hours earlier. His dead heart clenched painfully at the thought of losing Drusilla and he patted the lad's dark hair absently.

"Don't worry, pet," Spike said, planting a friendly kiss on Roberto's cheek. "Spike will make it all better." Didn't take long to drain the boy; at first he thrashed like a hooked fish, but as the blood pumped out of him his limbs grew loose and unresisting. Afterwards Spike briskly unfastened the sets of clanking cuffs and stuffed them in the pocket of his duster. He packed only one bag, piling in some of Dru's more treasured dresses. None of his own garments, though; he could pick up more clothes for himself easily enough when the need arose. Tucked in the handful of mementos he had gathered during a century of travelling and a couple of Drusilla's blessed dolls. It was primarily the cuffs and chains he'd come back for, along with Miss Edith. As an afterthought he wrapped Dru's hollow Easter eggs in a couple of silk scarves and slipped them into his remaining pocket.

* * *


Once he had her wrists cuffed to the iron bedstead, and there was no immediate danger of her escaping to wherever the spell wanted her to go once she returned to consciousness, Spike finally allowed himself to tend to her poor feet. He filled a basin with warm water and soap and found a little bottle of disinfectant, and he brought these into the bedroom with a towel and some bandages. She looked like one of the figurines in Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum, like a model of Sleeping Beauty. Except for the handcuffs.

Her feet were encrusted with congealed blood and nameless muck. When he picked them up they weighed almost nothing in his hands, as if she had the hollow bones of a bird. He dipped one corner of the towel into the basin and gently wiped her right ankle clean and then the top of her foot, working down towards the gory mess that was her wounded soles and slowly revealing the whiteness under all the dirt. Her skin was in ribbons. It took him a good twenty minutes to pick out the shards of glass and the little pebbles that had been grating away as she walked. He knew it would heal quickly enough and that the disinfectant was unnecessary, but nevertheless he sloshed it over her tattered flesh and smeared on some antiseptic cream before binding a bandage around each foot. He couldn't bear to let them remain in that condition.

He propped Miss Edith up on the bedside table and arranged the fragile Easter eggs beside her in a hastily-fashioned nest of scarves, so that there would be something familiar and reassuring for Dru if she woke up in this strange room. Brushed her tousled hair out of her face and stroked her cool cheek with the back of his fingers. He hated to leave her like this, but Spike knew that he was entirely out of his depth. For the first time he almost regretted being so wrapped up in his girl; he hadn't built up a particularly wide circle of acquaintances in Prague. The vamps were liable to stake him on sight, since they were bearing the brunt of the witches' anger. He needed a wizard - preferably a foreign wizard, and possibly a demon one. And he needed one now. This was not a threat that he could handle with his fists or his fangs.

He took one last look at her quiet body, dropped a kiss on her unresponsive brow and then hurried back out into the darkness.

* * *


The Kankanath was surprisingly helpful. Drusilla's flirtation with the bartender at The Metamorphosis had occasionally irritated Spike in the past, but it was hardly the time to be possessive about his flirtatious little flibbertigibbet. He needed all the help he could get right now. The blue demon gave him the address of a powerful human wizard and pressed Dru's favourite Iva Bittova album into his hands, the one she always used to wheedle him into playing on repeat while she danced between the tables with her eyes closed. He wished Spike luck in a voice rendered even croakier than usual by emotion.